


The Turing Test

by Bidawee



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Blood and Injury, Disturbing Themes, Ethical Dilemmas, Ex Machina Inspiration, First Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, Protests, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-09 02:38:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16441421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Bidawee
Summary: "NHL players and coaches have been vocal in their criticism of goalie android usage in recent years and the league wants it to stop.Frederik Andersen, the android recently installed in Toronto for the 15/16 season, has been at the centre of the controversy. Toronto, in particular, is combating the league regulations on android usage, according to Sportsnet's Jasper Davey. League representative Colin Campbell, who runs the NHL's hockey operations department, has responded with league minimum standards on the ethical treatment of the usage of a conscious robot for the purposes of entertainment and player safety."





	The Turing Test

**Author's Note:**

> An example of this total robot in action. https://cursivecherrypicking.tumblr.com/post/178734741633/for-that-cotton-candy-freddie-doing-his-thing
> 
> This story is a perfect example of my stories being too dark for the fluff audience and too fluffy for the dark audience. Any mistakes are my own and by extension, Grammarly’s because we die like men when it comes to problems. This extends to world building, since there was a lot I wanted to add but had to refrain from because the story reads through Mitch's perspective (and this story already has enough exposition (though I'll be happy to answer questions on my tumblr account!)). A big thanks to Ells for helping me with the summary's excerpt (never did remember what it was called). 
> 
> In this universe, Frederik never played for Anaheim and went into action the 2016-17 year.

The team’s rebranding makes use of nostalgia, referencing old mottos and near barbaric drinking chants for the crowd to mould to their own use all for the sake of reviving the glory days. It was both like and unlike the team Mitch watched growing up, the one plagued with loopty-loop defence and a reputation in the gutter.

Being drafted is a dream come true for him but not without its fair share of roadblocks. It milks every penny out of his folks and then some, as well as takes an emotional toll on him as he’s working to graduate out of high school. But, all in all, he makes it. He does it with stride. Poise, even. It’s easy to smile at the camera and link all your accomplishments to some sweat and grind.

Arriving at training camp is a much different story because the whole roster is scrappy. The veteran players want to hone their skills before preseason and the fresh-out-of-the-oven rookies that are destined to be cut are like cornered animals begin to froth for an opportunity to show off. He’s among the latter; London was terrific and he’d do it all over again but at the same time, he wouldn’t. Wearing the Maple Leaf was his calling and after being sent down the draft year he’s itching for something more to fraternize with.

It also happens to be the year they retire Bernier because of a few malfunctions. They talk about shipping him off half-way across the country just because retiring old models doesn’t turn in the cash. Truth be told, after the years watching the emotionless glob of parts function in their net it'd be weird seeing the hulking mass of muscle stare him down while dressed in all red. However, it’s not his call, and so Frederik Andersen is commissioned, all the way from Herning Denmark.

Meeting Frederik for the first time is embittering, because he’s returning to the dressing room for his water bottle after a practice skate and there’s a half-human hybrid plugged into the wall. The crease in between his elbow and his shins aren’t paved with skin, revealing an undercurrent of wires and programming quirks. It’s fascinating, a discontinuous view of what constitutes a man. Frederik is powered down but despite his eyelids being shut, there’s a quiet hum stemming from his position.

Mitch is rooting through his duffle bag with one eye on the grotesque shape at all times. It isn’t that he’d unconvinced of Frederik’s realness but his make is so inhumane at times it’s difficult to take seriously. The proportions are all wrong: his shoulders don’t slump, they perk, and his hips jut out like a woman’s so that his thighs are plump in comparison. Despite that, his neck slims out near his face and his knees are curved, feminine even.

He’s distracted by the new toy, so much that it takes him twice as long to retrieve his water bottle and get back on the ice. Even when he does, his mind has oriented itself more on their new goalie than the practice drills. It’s no wonder he’s called off early, his position on the team jeopardized. It means he’s banished to the locker room, this time met with a hoard of players all ogling at the manufactured goalie sitting among them, masquerading as a regular human.

Management comes in to address them at a rather brisk pace, likely the byproduct of having an associate barge in with news the team has found their new goalie. They stand beside the slumped-over shape and pat the android's head, fingers carding through the synthetic hair.

“Everyone,” the frontman, Lamoriello boomed, “we’re graciously inviting you to meet the newest individual of our Leafs roster, Frederik Andersen.” As he’s speaking, his hands extend out like bird’s wings and sweep down the expanse of goalie sitting complicit in front of him. Everything’s already been looked at, so there’s nothing new to see besides the kneecaps finally being locked into place and paved with silicon.

There’s a quiet donning the room, only spattered with a few coughs to break the awkwardness. No one knows exactly what to say. The unveiling is just that: an unveiling. The moment passes and everything returns to normal, a few schematics peppered in about testing the new model for quirks early on.

Mitch unsuits himself with a vigour, stampeding out the door as soon as humanly possible. It wasn’t just seeing a robot in place of a human being that got to him--he’d seen his fair share of the straight-faced robots to last a lifetime--but knowing what lay underneath; the circuit board that made up the man who’d soon be powered on and ready for action is impossible to forget even if he took bleach to the brain.

 

Toronto doesn’t rejoice their new goalie, they despise him. They point to Mcelhenney and demand he start, or the guys on the Marlies working their way up the totem pole who have a scrap of humanity to call their own. _Accepting robots as players is the next step to having the whole team replaced and then it becomes a life-sized game of fuzzball controlled by the programmers_ , they say. Forwards are already trying to be introduced with questions asked about the validity of having something like the legacy of Sidney Crosby replaced with the Connor McDavids of the world.

The big status quo is that the Leafs are traditional. Modernization is fine when it’s introducing social media platforms and gaming tournaments but a whole robot doesn’t compare on the level of catastrophic change required.

Toronto’s forced change means management needs to rethink their plan of action. They hold a press conference laid out with a pretty powerpoint presentation they lead the reporters along with. They talk about the joints they’ve fitted him with in great detail just to bore the particularly impatient crowds out of the room and then brace themselves for questions.

“Does it have a conscience?” the first male voice crows. It goes quiet enough to hear a pin drop in the audience.

Shanahan doesn’t take the question, he passes it off to Dubas. The younger man audibly swallows as he drags the microphone closer, smacking his lips once to wet them.

“Yes, we thought it was only appropriate for the safety and security of the players on the ice.” The room explodes with applause and outrage, the sea of people churning forward to get soundbites. The noise of spectators watching from their leather armchairs and television screens reverberates back and something terrible is poking out from under the surface.

No big questions wade up to the long table again, it gets so rowdy that what should be a conference turns into an ethics debate. It’s easier to just end it prematurely.

 

By some miracle of God, Mitch makes the roster. It had to be his performance on the days he wasn’t preoccupied with existential thinking and for that, he was grateful. Slipping his head through the loop on his jersey, printed with the number sixteen on the shoulder and back, was nothing less than euphoric. He’d determined he’s work through any problems and overcome whatever righteous plague had strangled the life out of his playing style.

It also was, coincidentally, the backing ground to the revelation of there being a new goalie in net. Their preseason opener was the first time Mitch saw the android active and it was like he’d been kicked back in time fifteen years and was touring the Ontario Science Centre. Frederik moved like a video game character fastened to controls. He’d block two shots, skirt to the right, and return back to his original placement. He could be a display from the wax museum if his optics didn’t blink like a regular human’s eyes.

Mitch keeps a safe distance and ran the drills with Auston Matthews plastered to his side. Having that sparkle of superstar spectacle beside him is more than refreshing. The only problem is, the man couldn’t shut up about Freddie, as he’s so cordially named him.

“They say he’s going to need a few games to be whipped into shape but he’s already playing so well,” Auston gushes. “Could be a cool guy too.”

“He’s a robot,” Mitch warns him as he’s making his rounds. He’s typically not the party pooper when it comes to exceptional situations but he’s been scared straight.

Auston’s face morphs into something twisted. “Yeah,” he says like a teenage girl, “I know. But think of the headlines. You think the Preds don’t already have theirs around their little finger? How cool would it be to walk up to someone and be like,” he deepens his voice, “yo, this is my best friend: he’s a cyborg.”

Mitch swats him on the head with his stick. “You’re ridiculous.”

Mitch didn’t let the interest misalign his structure of play—not again. He takes his shots and assists on as many plays as possible until there are blisters on the inside of his hand. It’s gratifying and only made better by the opening night in Ottawa as the world watches, open-mouthed, as Auston scores again, again, again, and again. That _finally_ cements the idea that he’s going to be making history with this team, his childhood team nonetheless.

It’s, coincidentally, all building up to a surprise meeting in the dressing room. Mitch is fresh out of the shower, water running down his back after being flung from the hair curled around the nape of his neck. Freddie’s so big his form eats up the entire exit way by sitting alone, boxing Mitch and the other players into the room as the assistant coaches run themselves into a frenzy. He appears particularly trained on Mitch, and by some instinctual drift, Mitch walks over.

Freddie doesn’t relent even when Mitch is up close, in only a single white towel. “Hello,” he says, near-muted. It almost goes unnoticed with the chatter behind them disturbing the sanctity of the room.

“Hi,” he says back. “I’m Mitch.”

“Hello, Mitch.” The repetition is impeccable, you wouldn’t be able to tell it was automated. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

“Cool.” Mitch ducks down, sitting where the backup should be. “I’ve, uh, never met someone like you before,” comes out of his mouth, unregulated.

Freddie tips his head to the side. “Then I guess we’re in quite a similar position. My name is Frederik. Frederik Andersen.”

“Yeah, Auston told me,” he says, not the truth but close enough. “He calls you Freddie. Can I call you Freddie?” The words are accompanied by a burst of laughter, all stemming from the initial social awkwardness bubbling between them.

Freddie’s optics narrow. “I’m not sure. That’s not my name.”

“Well, it’s a nickname. Like,” he plasters a hand to his chest, “for example, my name is Mitchell actually but everyone calls me Mitch. Even people that aren’t my friends.”

“Are we friends?” Freddie says without missing a beat.

Mitch smiles despite the uncanniness. “We can be.”

“Then sure,” Freddie nods, “you can call me Freddie.”

 

Mitch hates the practice arena and the commotion that comes with it. He hates having to have bodyguards flank them. _Them._ Professional athletes that by night are slammed at raging speeds and by morning cower from the everyday pedestrian. There’s no illusion of safety either; at one point he gets slapped in the head with an empty plastic water bottle. It doesn’t hurt but the notion that someone out there hates him enough to lop him over the head makes his heart ache.

He learns every type of protest by heart. The picket lines of people circling them like hungry wolves. The protests with the cardboard signs spray painted red, spitting poisonous accusations at the organization. Some try--keyword try--to boycott their games and their season tickets are snatched up the second they put them on Ticketmaster by wicked scalpers, rending their message useless. It still has some effect though, hearing that his cousin’s brother’s girlfriend has burned her jerseys because he’s the front of an organization that would do _that_ to a _man_.

 _It’s an android_ , the conferences, tabloids, newspapers, and articles say. _He’s a person,_ respond the masses, the protestors, and the fans from other organizations that prohibit androids from making the roster.

It’s a vicious war that overshadows any accomplishments Mitch can hope to gain in his rookie year. He loves his team and wouldn’t have it any other way but sometimes he closes his eyes and imagines being drafted somewhere else. Arizona maybe. At least then he could bask in the fun, shutting out the cascade of slurs and allegations that cradle him to sleep at night.

 

He swears he will never take it out on Freddie.

Freddie, inside the locker room only, is the equivalent of the new family rescue dog that the parents are excited for, the older kids are high-strung about, and the toddlers all over it. Mitch, infantilizing jokes aside, is part of the latter group. All in all, he’s never one to back down from a challenge. The veterans try to persuade them to be careful and keep their distance ( _you don’t know what he’s capable of_ ) but over the course of a few new conversations Mitch learns that Freddie isn’t the Boogeymonster.

Connor Brown leads the herd, citing how he firsthand played with Connor McDavid and came out alive and with a legacy to call his own on the Otters. Mitch knew McDavid, or at least knew Dylan Strome who knew McDavid, so it wasn’t the biggest stretch to compare their shiny new toy to the league’s sweetheart. Once the others saw that yes, it was possible to cozy up to an android courtesy of their own Brownie, their viewpoints shifted dramatically.

They declare robot’s biggest flaw is something pretty common among the rookies: being awkward. Not in the verbal sense either--Freddie doesn’t fire off questions like cannon blasts but is clearly perturbed by the locker room jargon he’s unable to understand. He watches them like they’re in a biology lab cutting open frog intestines.

When Mitch thinks about how he’d been anticipating to hate Freddie, it’s an amusing turn of events, to say the least. Juniors had scraped Mitch’s empathy for goalies out with a rusty scalpel.

It all stemmed back to the idea that the extinction of the original goalie in the professional leagues would cause a ripple effect until sooner than later, cyborgs, robots, and androids were all that could be dug up at the net’s architectural sites. Tit for tat, the jealousy and fear of replacement festered in pretty much every goalie Mitch had met, making them more prone than ever to fits of unreasonable anger as the constant fear of replacement fogged up their conscience.

In a way, he felt bad too, because the players were working hard to secure a future running from view. He’d never say it though--they would always turn on him and wrestle his accomplishments to the ground in order to harness control over a situation they had very little control in. It was easier to sit back and let them steam.

Mitch found it difficult to comfort them then, usually only giving a simple hug in accordance with wins. It was hard to comfort but harder to overlook how a simple loss would stink up the locker room for the remainder of the week. Those feelings stayed in his body for years, until Freddie who, again was displaced at times, but after a rocky start in October was a relief to have both on the ice and in the room when the boys needed a witty comment to keep them going.

Mitch does his part, making sure to hug Freddie after every win and press Freddie in close when they lose just like he did his old Knights goalie, Parsons. Freddie dearly appreciates the contact, if the whirring is any indication, but it wasn’t always like that: the first time Mitch went for a hug Freddie perceived his actions as threatening and almost broke Mitch’s nose with his stick and ever since, he’s treated Freddie like a flight-risk horse. He never approaches from behind anymore, going the distance as to make sure he won’t go blind by the second period.

It’s all artificial, there’s no denying that, but he likes to believe Freddie feels something. There’s definitely something going on besides conditioning Freddie to open up his arms and hug it out until he’s satisfied (comical in comparison to his stiff-brow nods whenever other players approach them). Mitch doesn’t really notice it until Freddie whines the one night he forgets to celebrate a win and is chased down by a hundred plus kilograms of weight but even that, he can laugh off--although he never forgets ever again.

Going into his first season, with Freddie beginning to nail down the emoticon vocabulary and still never lack in the department of hugs, Mitch knows he has something more special than a friend in net.

 

Since Connor Brown is their “self-acclaimed robot expert” for the time being, most of them depend on him to bridge the gap. He’s the one pulled up beside Freddie nine times out of ten between practice shifts, asking about rickety joints and coordination. It’d be sufficiently inappropriate for teammates but Freddie’s into it and answers accordingly. Brownie is someone to talk to that’s not there to oil his joints or dig around in his mind space to make sure the wires aren’t twisted. A treat.

Mitch talks to him about it once during a team movie night. It’s supposed to be a casual get-together but word got out and the Marlies crew stopped by, which doesn’t so much damper the night as it makes the small condo they’re in incredibly crowded. At the time, Mitch swipes a sugar cookie and glass of water from the tray of food in the kitchen, purely to combat the sips of booze he egged Marty into sharing with him.

Connor’s outside on the patio, swinging his legs to the weird Indie-like music blasting through Naz’s speakers. A few of the guys are out on the lawn kicking a soccer ball around but the space appears entirely contained and they can only go so far before a deflection hits them in the nose. Mitch is nearly overcome with the desire to knock on the sliding glass door so he doesn’t disturb Connor. Luckily, Connor’s got more spatial awareness than the typical athlete and pats a spot next to him for Mitch to occupy.

Entering the bubble of quiet is something ethereal for Mitch. It’s not often he can convince the treadmill his heart’s running on to slow down but it’s just that time of night where his eyelids are pulling themselves shut and he’s ditzy enough to loll his head back. The cool touch of the wood planks is nothing like the cushioning pleasure of sinking into one of Leo’s bean bag seats.

“Hey,” he half-slurs. “Y’having fun?”

“Lots.” Connor can’t withhold his laughing. In front of them, some of the incredibly drunk players manage to sky uppercut the ball into a tree, snapping branches off in every direction. Their hooting gets a few shouts from the neighbour.

“Never seen you this tired Marns,” Connor continues. He’s trying to put on an adult facade with his deep voice and damn it, it’s working. Zach was lost to a sea of bodies gyrating to some techno music Naz had blasted aloud and Connor was going to be the next best thing.

“I would’a thought you were all,” Mitch spins his fingers mid-air, “exhausted and shit from learning robo-language.”

Connor’s eyebrows perk of, not of his own will. “Robo-language,” he scoffs. “Can’t say I’ve heard that one before.”

“Oh, what’d you prefer? The robot whisperer?”

Connor holds two hands up in a stopping motion, surrendering without a fight. “Freddie doesn’t really talk. I had an old teammate tell me that androids are just playing strategy. He’s thinking about what he needs to say and how it will be received. McDavid did the same thing.”

“But Freddie’s not like Connor, is he?” Mitch pries. Connor huffs out a laugh into his suspiciously orange drink. He takes a sip before he turns back to Mitch.

“Not at all. He’s fascinating.” Connor words leave on a dream cloud. “He learns. Every time you say something he learns more about it. It’s like building legos. You can only go up.”

“I never got the impression McDavid was like that.”

“Never. They put him into commission near the end of my career in Erie but I did talk to the guy. He’s programmed to feel happiness but never to the extent that Freddie does. I guess they didn’t want to take the chance that Connor would concern himself with anything that wasn’t hockey.”

“You think goalies would be the same.” Mitch took a long sip of his drink, directly mirroring how Connor manages to pull it off with an air of grace.

“Me too, but at the same time, it’s not as bad as everyone makes it out to be. He gets to see the world and actually feel something for it. McDavid can score, oh sure, but it’s difficult to get much out of him besides what his processor can look up on the web.” It’s a sad truth. There’s nary a picture of him out there without elevator music playing in between his optics, keeping him as a stowaway from reality.

“Does he work as a search engine then?” Mitch jokes. Connor smiles into his drink.

“I wish,” Connor exhales. “Although, it might explain why the guys are up close with him. I don’t think Freddie comes with the real-time stuff so no, he doesn’t function as a living Wikipedia article.”

“Aw man, then what’s the point?” Mitch slaps his knee. “I was promised a superhuman.”

“I think he holds up fine as a goalie, wouldn’t you say?”

Mitch blanks. He shrugs both of his shoulders as high as possible before his neck folds bulge out. “I mean, you guys and defence would know more than I do.”

“Well, next time we don’t have to outscore the enemy five times over to win, maybe it’s because we got a big Danish monster taking up space in net.”

Mitch presses both of cup rims together. “I’ll drink to that,” he declares, not even caring that much when Connor rolls his eyes at him like some know-it-all. He _is_ playing the part of band-aid Hyman though, so Mitch will let him off without a scathing remark, just this once.

 

Freddie, over the course of two months, becomes more human than ever and it fucks with him. Management stretches out how long they use Freddie and begin to bring him in do media-related stunts. It’s an instant hit: the wonder-goalie capable of colouring in his mask, designing jerseys, and brawling with his teammates in a road hockey special done for the team’s feed. It’s different compared to the other calendar photoshoots where they dump a blanket of puppies on a goalie to try and humanize them, only to end up with mixed results and a goalie stiffer than an ironing board.

Mitch makes an effort to talk to the technicians and the response is simple: Freddie is adapting. After spending a specific length with the team he’d picked up mannerisms and scooped out his base assumptions and coding. It’s just as fascinating as it is creepy; Mitch looking over his shoulder after he’s finished bunny-tying his laces and watching Freddie copy his every movement. The childlike simplicity it harbours can’t be underestimated, but it’s hard to picture the monstrous Freddie as anything but what he is--having no childhood to speak of. It befuddles Mitch’s consciousness enough to give him migraines.

The team has to be careful with regulating “outside materials” like gaming or birthday parties. Freddie’s got access to an inner encyclopedia: he’s not stupid. He chooses what’s the best course of action based on what he knows and what he sees but otherwise, he’s the equivalent of a living internet server whenever he’s plugged into the wall. Case in point: he knows what birthdays are and what they celebrate. He knows he’s not invited.

It’s sad, really, when rumours get out. The best (or worst) example would have to be when Matt smacks Naz’s shoulder during practice to substitute a birthday punch when they’re in range of Freddie. At first, it looked like the information was lost on Freddie but they’re inches away from leaving the locker room when Freddie passes over a small bag of chips to Naz and sends the group into catatonic shock.

It’s something rather immature in the grand scheme of things, but the story’s the catcher. Knowing Freddie would’ve had to collect coins, find time between practice to visit the machines, and do it all for a party he wasn’t even invited to makes everyone walk a little downtrodden for the rest of the day. It’s decided after that that birthday were off the topic of conversation. For Freddie.

(Freddie doesn’t forget though, he never does. Mitch decides to reciprocate with a gift of his own by naming October 2nd as Freddie’s birthday as a little surprise, throwing a little party post-practice to compensate for missing it by a month. The team mostly treats it as a formality but Mitch is close enough with Freddie to know the smile he’s giving is genuine. The hug afterward from Freddie is just a bonus.)

 

It’s a joke the first time the Toronto media puts their heads together and requests Frederik Andersen again. The first few times they’d called on him management had to come out and read a release form about protecting the mind space of their property and not involving him in strenuous activities as per the circumstances of their rent. It’s a bunch of technobabble that no one wants to put up with and after reviewing McDavid interviews for the fifth time in a week it becomes very clear that androids aren’t made to engage with real-life personalities. It’s easier to just move on.

Freddie’s growing though and the progress he’s made doesn’t lie on deaf ears. There are cameras in the room the day he helps Leo out with spraying canned shaving cream into Reemer’s helmet and the question remains: just how human is the Maple Leafs goaltender? It’d make someone’s day and some journalist’s career to delve into the robotic seams and find something newsworthy to stir the melting pot that is the debate of whether or not a conscious being should be behind bars.

Freddie’s not supposed to be out past ten unless he’s in cooldown simply because his vehicle transport needs him offline to depart. It’s the one day everyone gets rid of the corset keeping them so level-headed and let him stay up past his bedtime to talk with the media. Mitch just happens to be in the room when they first pull him out.

He doesn’t attend the interview but the media team is nothing but prompt. It’s uploaded at a whopping six minutes long with the thumbnail of a very befuddled but happy-looking goalie. He’s fixing himself a bagel with cream cheese for breakfast as it loads, rhythmically tapping his butter knife against the marble countertops as his toaster takes it sweet time.

It’s sorta funny--even though he’d never say it to the man’s face--watching Freddie duck into frame with wide-eyes like a child at a crime scene. Everyone’s calling his name at once because he looks in the direction of the voice each time. It’s very feline, if Mitch could dub it that. Some of the reporters do intervene in the midst of the practice, shoving their microphones and phones out.

Mitch _fears_ for them. Not because they’re in danger, but because he knows firsthand what Freddie will do if you shove something unexpected in his face. Fortunately for them, Freddie doesn’t read the bulbous equipment as a puck and try to swat it out of mid-air. He’s well-behaved the whole way through.

 

_“Freddie, what’s it like playing for the Maple Leafs?”_

_“When you’re on the ice, how does it feel looking out at the people in the stands?”_

_“Did you ever get to practice skating before you were activated?”_

_“Is the team very inclusive on the topic of androids in the NHL?”_

_“How would you say it affects you not being able to spend as much time with your teammates?”_

_“If you could leave the rink, would you?”_

 

The gradual progression of the questions isn’t nice, but it’s predictable. Freddie, to his credit, doesn’t get wordy despite little to no training with the public eye. He keeps his answers relatively short for the first two, denies the third, and goes on to gush about locker room pranks before he can really talk about the debate going on behind the scenes. It’s easy to see how his happiness manifests itself in his lopsided smile and raised brows.

“What can I say,” he interjects once, “I like to think I’m just one of the boys. I got my coolant bottle, I got my number, and I got my team. It doesn’t get any better than that.”

It’s very hypnotic. Mitch doesn’t realize his toast is going cold for the full six minutes and debates whether or not to put it back in for a minute and risk burning it just to get the heat back. In the grand scheme of things it’s stupid but knowing that Freddie can take care of himself makes distracting himself with menial tasks easier.

He sees his profile in the bottom right from that morning’s practice interview and has the restraint not to click on it and embarrass himself further. He doesn’t even bother with the comments section on Freddie’s. It’s a first for him.

 

“Do you find me attractive Mitch?” Freddie says one day, in the process of stripping the velcro from his pads. It effectively freezes Mitch in place. He’d been slurping out the last of the Gatorade in his bottle and hadn’t paid Freddie much heed: being put on the spot was less than desirable.

“Attractive?” he repeats because of a lack of an instant reply he could churn out. “Uh, attractive. Well, sure. I guess you could say that.”

Freddie’s by no means a bad looking guy; if he wasn’t an android with wires where there should be arteries and veins then maybe Mitch would fork over his flirtatious moves and make an effort to appreciate the sculpted calves and biceps. As it stood though, he’d chased away anything resembling love before it could take hold.

By God though, the painter they’d used for Freddie was much too precise. Even something as meticulous as stubble is present, with the variety of brush strokes used to give the impression of ginger colouring. If Mitch closed his eyes and pretended the heat wafting up is because of a beating heart and not an overworked motherboard he could almost just believe Freddie was legitimate.

The answer is out, he’s helpless but to sit back and let the information soak in. Freddie pauses, during which Mitch thinks about cowering beneath the floorboard with embarrassment.

He’s not shocked, not truly at least, when a pair of lips plant themselves on his. There’s a slippery give to the bottom one as it mashed against his own, like he’s making out with a plate of mushrooms. The sterilized taste of the chapstick they use to keep Freddie’s lips from drying out makes Mitch’s tongue roll backward in disgust, the synthetic flavour near overpowering. Freddie doesn’t understand positioning and so there’s so diagonal angle to work with and as a result, their noses scrunch up. It’s a novice kiss.

It feels like an hour but lasts only a handful of seconds. Just like that, Freddie’s backing up and his face has reset into a neutral expression. Mitch’s fingers touch his top lip.

“Oh,” he says.

“Is that good?” Freddie asks, like a dog waiting to be praised. There’s no eagerness upfront but his circuits are beating faster, enough that the sound around them has been amplified.

“It was,” he pauses, “fine, I guess, but you’re only supposed to kiss people you love. Not me.”

Freddie is not deterred. His back slopes. “What if I love you?”

“Do you even know what love is?” He regrets his choice of words because Freddie's face goes on to cycle through five or so facial expressions.

“I know what someone looks like who’s in love. They laugh and touch their hair a lot. They lean in and their heart rate increases,” Freddie says.

“That’s a good start,” Mitch says. “But there’s a lot more to it. Me? I think we’re really good friends but we’re not necessarily in love, per se.”

Freddie falters for the first time that evening. “Oh,” he says. His hands drop from his knees and sway lifelessly underneath him like the arms of a metronome. It’s sad really, to see him defaulting back on the first genuine touch of emotion.

He’s not finished though, Freddie gives himself a second to recuperate and returns to his blown-out stance. “Mitch, do you think I can fall in love?”

It’s like striking a funny bone; what comes next is an unconditioned response. Mitch smiles. “Yeah, I think you can.”

 

Things don’t automatically become normal after that, Mitch is convinced Freddie’s reading into every interaction of his to gauge attraction. It doesn’t go unnoticed, the assistant coaches begin to spend more time with Freddie to remedy how much time he spends shooting water at Mitch during practice. Friendships weren’t going to be a problem (to believe such would be psychotic) but anything more posed a threat. The unspoken danger shucked away at Mitch’s composure until any call down to the middle man’s office had him quivering in his skates.

But all in all, his spot on the team is secured and he’s looking up. For a while, he’s able to focus on problems that never crossed his mind, like that the mantle needed dusting and his bar of soap at home was pitifully shrunken down. He even had the aptitude to go out and buy a new, less-worn toothbrush as well as collect a better soap dish so that his hygiene wouldn’t be lacking on the road. He was acting like a functional adult and in that sense, he was happy to call his mother and fill her in on the details for the sweet sense of maturity he not harnessed.

Freddie joins in on the fun and worms his way into cliques almost to the point where he cherishes Auston’s presence more than Mitch’s. He would be worried but Auston isn’t the philosophical type--he wouldn’t be able to stay behind after-hours and review tape with Freddie as he tried to explain how human beings made popcorn.

That being said, red flags keep sticking up left and right and it takes for a meeting for him in Lamoriello office to realize it’s something bigger than what was expected. The dim lighting combined with the tacky furniture is no odd appearance--he’s walked the walk before--but having the room crammed with personal trainers and technicians choking the oxygen out made it ten times as stressful.

“Mr. Marner,” Lou whistles, “do you know why you’re here?”

Mitch tucks his chair in a few paces to situate himself closer to the desk and absolutely _not_ to bide time. “I’m afraid not,” he answers cordially.

“It’s concerning your relationship with Frederik Andersen.” Mitch tucks his bottom lip in toward his teeth. “You understand why we place restrictions on the team’s interactions with it, I assume.”

“To some degree, yes.” The second the words leave his mouth a piece of paper is slid in his general direction. He stares it down for a minute before retrieving it.

Printed in big, bold letters is the headline to a news article detailing an attack dated a decade back. On it, is a foreign android goalie. It’s one of the older models, he can tell because the painting on the face isn’t as well done and the forehead looks wrinkled beyond belief. The skin tone is clammy, reminiscent of a dead man’s glower and it’s uncomfortable to look at. It takes a minute for Mitch to realize that in his arms is a player being strangled to death.

“It’s of our highest priority to assure the health and safety of this team is maintained. Using a machine puts us all at risk, so, as you may assume, we need to put in place some regulations. These extend to how boundaries are set. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Mitch clears his throat to clear the patchy sensation building at the base, “I understand.”

“Andersen’s responsibility is to be the goalie; a change of interest jeopardizes this post. We know from this,” he points at the paper, “that goalies are malleable. You’ve seen it firsthand. It’s fine when it’s learning about team rituals or superstitions but all this,” his hands fly up, “personal stuff--he can’t handle it.”

Mitch nods.

“If his priorities change and he becomes more concerned with your well-being beyond a teammates comradery then we have no choice but to put him out of commission, sending the team back millions and putting you on our personal blacklist.”

Mitch nods, again. It’s too disconcerting to answer personally.

Lou leans in close, so much so that Dubas behind him needs to step forward to record the conversation. “You’re both very talented and we’re happy with the rebuild we have in progress. All we ask is you be a team player and work for us here. No more of these,” his fingers produce air quotes, “little meetings. Andersen is your goalie and nothing more.”

“I understand sir,” Mitch parrots back. There’s static inside of his fingernails, cotton balls in his ears. Being under the scrutiny of management is never a good thing to have on record, obviously. Being on Lou’s bad side is even worse.

He shakes hands with them and sprinkles in compliments just to tie them over. His pasty complexion is all they need to see to confirm the message is delivered and in less than thirty minutes time he’s ushered out, one hand still white-knuckle gripping the scan from the newspaper.

 

He’s a bit out of it in the days following the incident. His plays aren’t pretty but there’s an energy orbiting around him that appears to make others mellow out in contrast to his tippy-toes attitude. He doesn’t anticipate one of the “others” to be Babcock but he takes the breaks he gets in between shooting drills with grace. Granted, it does split him up from the teammates being burned by another lap of scathing remarks but he’s not one to complain: he just wants to sleep.

Mitch gets by on a half a can of Red Bull and whatever contraption he’s cooked himself for dinner. In the midst of his little moping state, his apartment goes from liveable to a pigsty and Auston’s the first to pick up on it by grimacing in Mitch’s doorway.

“Dude, come on,” he complains, kicking away a pair of untied, dirtied Converse sneakers.

Mitch turns his nose up. “Says the guy using plastic forks and paper plates.” Auston launches his winter gloves at Mitch’s head, the padded blow ricocheting off of his head as they fall lifelessly to the ground.

He pretends the judgement doesn’t get under his skin but finds himself digging a broom out of the hallway closet by eleven that evening when all’s said and done.

Zach’s the first to bring up the topic of his twitchiness at team breakfast. Mitch had scooped one shovel-full of scrambled eggs onto his plate and nothing more. He didn’t even supplement it with an apple juice. Since apparently, that’s all that needs to occur for the rest of the team to have an existential crisis, the warning flags push Zach his way.

Zach pulls his chair up and works his torso around so that he’s not in violation of personal space but still enough to Mitch to make talk. “Hey, you wanna go out for lunch?” he says.

Mitch’s appetite could barely stomach breakfast; it aches at the thought of more food. Still, he forces himself to be polite. “Sure.” He flashes a tiny smile to reassure Zach that he doesn’t need to be babysat. It’s just a rough patch.

He lets Zach take the reins and pick out a place. They’re north of Danforth, on a street cropped by a small urban palace of condos where little family-run establishments decker the storefronts. It’s got a very rustic feel; the ruby-red bricks stick out like Christmas lights among the blanket of flurries.

As their boots sink into the snow, Mitch is taken completely out of the moment and whatever thought plagues his mind. He doesn’t look twice when a redheaded man nudges past with enough bulk to convince him it’s Freddie, something that’s been occurring more often than not because of a ghostly image of a man confined by a leash to his post. He’s stiff to the point of discomfort as they’re led by the oaken fireplace mounted into the wall and into a leather booth and chair-piece a few feet from the floor-length glass windows.

Zach looks right at home. Slap a pair of glasses on him and the combination of the bound book dates him back thirty years. He orders a coffee and a stuffed croissant; Mitch manages a french vanilla. The ambience doesn’t require much talking but Zach’s gifted at his craft, he weans a few words out from Mitch’s lips.

“You look so sensitive, more than ever,” Zach says. His eyes twinkle behind the candlelight, hands reaching out with the intent to heal.

“Fuck off, I’m fine.” Mitch shoos the wandering hand away. “Just going through a rough patch. Slump.”

Zach taps his bottom lip with a fork. “I thought you needed to be a sophomore to go through the sophomore slump.”

Mitch swipes the fork. “You know what I mean.” His words are rough but they’re sloppily vanilla. When they wash over Zach they only serve to entertain.

Zach knows that space is what Mitch needs and complies. He shares pieces of his desserts and fruits the servers bring to taste test for their new menu selection. Mitch gets to sit back and enjoy the acoustic guitar playing overhead. He gets to laugh at himself when Zach points out a whip cream moustache. He can exhale and let the whisk of air rattle his lungs.

They’re finishing up the hot drinks and dousing the burns on their tongues with the cold when a young woman walks up to their table. She’s not the waitress: she’s dressed in cashmere sweater that dangles behind her, fitting of the restaurant. She’s wearing a Leafs shirsey, her brown hair tucked back in a thick bun that’s unspooled itself and hangs out back. Mitch dabs at the smudge of cheese sauce at the edge of his lips, prettying himself for a picture.

“Hi,” she starts. She doesn’t appear to have a spheal to grab at off the top of her head and swallows. “You’re Maple Leafs, right?”

“The one and only,” Zach speaks up. He’s polishing off his glass of water.

She takes a seat at the side of the table where a single chair sits neglected, making herself at home. “Would I be able to ask you some questions about Frederik Andersen?” She scoots forward, the sound like nails on a chalkboard.

“What do you wanna know?” Zach says, his tone now clipped. Their media training floods into their speech, bloating it.

“Well, you’re good friends with him right? What’s it like having that kind of relationship?” She turns to Mitch with a wide-mouthed smile. “Do you have inside jokes and whatnot?”

“Of course we do,” Mitch says. He stays wary of the phone in her hands that could be a recording device. “Freddie’s just as much a member on the team as Hyms or me.”

“That’s cool,” she gushes. She’s so young in appearance she could still be in high school. It beautifies her words. “I mean, other teams have tried it out but Toronto’s choice was a bit odd.”

“It’s odd for all of us,” Zach answers for Mitch. “But life does that sometimes. We grow up and move on.”

“And Freddie’s a great guy,” Mitch adds. “He’s got his hopes and dreams of winning the Cup too. If Murray can do it, anyone can.”

She pauses, processing the words. “So, he’s just like one of the guys?”

“Yup,” Mitch says around a mouthful of his plastic straw.

The youthful expression of the woman sizzles away. What’s left behind is a sour frown, with the upper lip peeled upward enough to let her front teeth poke out. “If he’s just one of the guys then why does he get to stay cooped up in the arena all day and you get to go out?” She leans in close, enough for her exhale to wash over Mitch. “That’s not fair. Who’s to say who is a real person and who is an item to claim ownership over?”

Zach throws his napkin onto his plate, standing up abruptly. “Nice talk. Mitch, I think we should go.” Their server, who’s a few tables down, sees the building tension and trots over with a tray in hand as Zach shucks his leather wallet free.

Mitch doesn’t need to be asked twice, he stands at full-height and uses personal space as a barricade to push the woman back with. She doesn’t give him much slack, following him around the booth and waiting for them to pay for their meal. She’s likely rehearsing what to say next, so Mitch doesn’t dignify her with a look. _Five minutes_ , he says. Five minutes until they’re back in the truck.

Zach takes the lead out but Mitch finds it hard to keep up with the buzz of people around them. Behind them, the woman shrieks, “you cowards, you know I’m right!” People rush to her aid, the servers and staff trying to take control by asking she leave. It has the opposite effect of what’s intended because in seconds she’s snatched her satchel and stomping after them.

“Turn around, Mitch! Tell me the truth! What friend just lets another person waste away? Who do you think you are?” Mitch wishes then, more than ever, that he could clamp his ears shut of his own volition. But, to cover them in public would make him out to be a five-year-old when he hears it’s eight in the evening and it’s time to go to bed. He tries to straighten himself out and have some regency when he talks but the woman is persistent, to the point where the manager threatens to call the police if she keeps disturbing the people dining (who, in actuality, are on their phones filming them from start to finish).

Mitch feels queasy, expecting the food he just ate to come up in chunks. The words she thows at him embed in his esophagus until it’s hard to breathe. That, combined with the management’s summon, shreds his daily routine into tatters. He can’t look at food without feeling sick.

 

Freddie has difficulty understanding why Mitch keeps his head down but it’s not like Mitch can just fumble over and make up excuses. Conversing with Freddie makes it very difficult to lie. Mitch’s plan of action simply consists of keeping his distance for a week while he’s being monitored. It’s not as well thought through as he makes it out to be.

The problem is, Freddie’s a puppy. More so than Mitch. And just like how he stalked Mitch down after games to ensure they celebrated properly, practice becomes a tiring ordeal of taking shots and slipping back toward the bench before the sound of Freddie’s stick hitting his blocker can get his attention. Eventually, it ends with them simultaneously visiting the bench for water (or coolant, in Freddie’s case) at the same time, leading to Mitch getting separated from the team pack by a lumbering stack of circuits.

Freddie scoots over, just enough for the exhaust from his vents to wash over Mitch. “Hey, about--”

“Freddie, I’m a bit busy,” Mitch says, which is a blatant lie because he’s staring down a hole of his stick tape without bothering to fix it. Freddie picks up on the fake out and moves an inch closer.

“I just wanted to say, I’m sorry. Auston was saying you got in trouble because of me. If it was something I did--”

“No, no,” Mitch intervenes, “you didn’t do anything. Management just has a way of doing things that I wasn’t aware of.” He lifts his stick up to throw it over the bench and free up his hands. Freddie’s optics don’t deter from where they’re watching him.

“I see. Does this mean we can’t be friends anymore?”

Deep inside his chest, Mitch’s heart squeezes. “I don’t know.” Freddie’s face falls. “But I want to, I promise. I just don’t know if it’s possible.”

Freddie’s head slants, the curls on his head bouncing. “I don’t want to break any rules or leave you a healthy scratch.” His words are hollow but a smile is wiggling onto his face.

“Have you seen me?” Mitch’s hands swipe down his body, all padded up in equipment. His hips ricochet out. “They wouldn’t dare.”

“I have a feeling attractiveness doesn’t factor into it, but okay.” Just like that, it’s like they’re back to normal.

Babs, bless his heart, looks on but doesn’t appear jostled enough to intrude in on the moment. They’re confined to a little bubble that’s entirely their own and any image of newspaper strips or stop signs go up in flames. Freddie’s good at conversation, crafted with a voice box that’s so husky he’s able to curl words around his finger. It’s no wonder Mitch’s plan fails thirty minutes into its execution.

Since the last time they met up, Mitch can see a lightness and an _ease_ when Freddie builds his sentences. He completely misses the question Freddie asks because he’s in la la land and has to pardon himself.

Freddie laughs under his breath. “I said, do you think our team is very attractive?”

Mitch punches his shoulder, lightly, because he doesn't want to on the hook for grubbing up valuable property. “Well, you’re on it.” Freddie’s face splits in a grin. “Jokes aside, uh, I think so. I mean, what other team’s got a Connor Brown?” He points out Connor and his atrociously bad sideburns, grown out over some stupid bet Mitch can’t even remember. Connor flips him off but halts himself when Freddie’s eyes target him.

Freddie watches Connor skate off before returning to Mitch. “How do you gauge attractiveness though?” he says, his voice weirdly situated.

“There’s some bullshit article about facial symmetry running around. I mean, it makes sense but sometimes, you just know. Or you got a “thing” for people.”

“A thing?” Freddie parrots and Mitch almost smacks himself in the forehead for making the mistake of using colloquial terms around the goalie again.

“Some people like certain things. A lot of guys like blonde women. Some people like certain body shapes. Some people like men or women or--well, stuff. You just know.” By the end, Mitch’s face is beet red. He didn’t want to scrape himself clean to prove a point to Freddie.

When he looks up, Freddie’s struggling to keep himself from belting out another laugh. Mitch takes a second to backtrack until he notices the fakeness in Freddie’s question and can’t help feeling scandalized: a _ruse_ then.

Even though Freddie is twice his size, he lets Mitch chase him down centre ice to the bellows of his teammates. All and all, it’s really nice to be good friends again (and hopefully, just that).

 

They make the playoffs and they’re dynamite. There’s no other word sufficient enough to explain how it injects an artificial level of adrenaline into them. Bag skates become something anticipated, not dreaded, and the inner circle of players closes in. Their heads rock to the tunes of praises churned out by the crowds.

It does come at a great cost: they’re shells of their former selves. Anything personal gets thrown to the wayside all for the intrinsic hope that victory will bless them with the Cup.

Freddie situates himself as the new team leader. There’s no personal bearing on him because he’s not in the middle of two worlds. After weeks of using Connor Brown as a brace to lean on, the tables turn. He’s the new team therapist.

They can’t talk to him about big city stuff; Freddie still doesn’t understand the difference in coats and why the team routinely changes them as the cold front degrades into the background. His world exists inside the concrete structures of the ACC and Mastercard Centre. It doesn’t help that occasionally, Mitch sees Freddie’s trolley being tugged out from the semi-trailer when they’re visiting another team’s home turf, an inactive Freddie hunched over: offline.

Despite that, it doesn’t undermine his hockey smarts nor the sound advice he cranks out. They can unload on him without fear of judgement as he puts on the wise-man look and nods along. Mitch revels in it. Freddie’s got two big arms and a lap to sit on. Mitch can close his eyes and just talk.

He’s not the only visitor. Zach, Connor, and Auston are all close enough to Freddie to bask in the attention the goalie gives them. Freddie’s, to give him credit, a popular attraction to both the players and the fans. He’s making himself out to be the face of a new generation, something that advocacy groups can latch onto. Something about the appearance of a high-strung man with a dash of humour lights people’s guts on fire.

The trainers glue themselves to Freddie’s side; they don’t give him any leverage. He can’t say anything bad about the team or his stay on it. Time and time again he tightens his mouth and spits out the pre-written dialogue, all fabricated and just simple enough to pass as his own words. Make no mistake, Mitch sees the vulnerability in his look. It’s a bitter pill that just gets harder and harder to swallow.

 

Somehow, and Mitch hopes to God it's not Babs, word does make its way back about Mitch getting too close again. _It was just us having fun_ , Mitch says, _it wasn’t anything serious_ and it’s hardly the proper excuse to explain trying to tackle Freddie to the ice according to upper-level management. Needless to say, their little stampede of clad businessmen leave in a huff, too determined to argue factual evidence with Mitch as they pull away anyone remotely close to Freddie.

Shanahan flees the scene of the crime last with Lamoriello and Babcock in tow. This time is different however, because they chose to do it in the locker room after believing the team has evacuated. Mitch proves them wrong in a few seconds after tiptoeing to the supply room and bumping face first into Freddie’s pectoral muscles.

“It must be strange,” Freddie says, “to have created someone that hates them so much.” His voice reverts back into the emotionless monotone he came manufactured with.

Mitch crooks his head to the side, his vision still wonky because of the hit. “Do you hate them?”

“I don’t know,” Freddie answers. “I don’t like them, that’s for sure. The trainers told me what they said to you.” His hands have opened up, showing off the arches of his palm lines where his optics bore in. He’s dissecting the wrinkles and veins, all a fabrication of reality and thanks to the work of a painter with years of practice under his belt.

Freddie adds on, “the people out there say I’m not anything if I don’t feel. And I don’t know if I feel hatred.” The silicon coating his body scrunches as he turns to hulk over Mitch. “What do you hate? I think I should hate it too.”

Mitch, pinned on the spot, scrambles to think of something legitimate. “I uh,” he pauses, “I hate pollen because it sets off my allergies.”

“Not _that_ hate,” Freddie speaks, slow and deliberate. “Person-wise.”

“Person-wise, huh, person-wise,” Mitch repeats. “I don’t think I could ever really hate someone. They’d have to be pretty despicable. Y’know, kick puppies and shit.”

“I see.” Freddie’s eyes so stringy and it’s the end of the conversation. By the end of it, despite it only taking two minutes tops, Mitch feels he’s already cemented the fate of management in the optics of their last line of defence.

 

They reach the end of the postseason with a tragic loss to Washington. Freddie doesn’t make it to the locker room before his stick pounds into a garbage can and bends the bin in two.

The defencemen clot around their goalie to lick their wounds together as the forwards get to work on accepting defeat. No one can manage anything but a grunt. For Mitch, it’s especially damaging. All his rookie hopes go down the drain.

The real kicker comes just as he’s messing up his hair with some liquid gel. It’s never something he ever put much thought into but his reality screeches to a halt as he realizes that Freddie isn’t following the team out into the offseason. He sits, as still as he did when his body first arrived in the dressing room that fateful September day, and tries to make himself smaller. People walk past, trapped in their own reverie, and can’t comprehend the murder that’s about to happen to Freddie’s conscience.

With nowhere else to go, Mitch obediently stalks over to the defence corps and, more specifically, the fourth liners. Connor’s hair is still wet, he’s running a towel through the red strands to catch the droplets. In his own little world, he’s visibly disturbed when Mitch plops down beside him.

Mitch places a hand on Connor’s lower thigh. “Hey,” he starts. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Connor says back. His voice is hollow, like the rest of them. 

Mitch doesn't sugarcoat. “What’s going to happen to Freddie?”

Connor looks out from under his eyelashes, chin tucked in. Freddie’s at a difficult angle to see from but there’s no missing the ginger flash that pops up when the bystanders clear from the centre of the room. “He’ll go into storage. They’ll bring him out for training camp.”

“That’s it?” Mitch’s voice breaks. He doesn’t know why it’s affecting him so much. It’s likely the post-game depression kicking in at the first opportunity just to be a bitch.

“That’s it,” Connor says. He ends the conversation by rising to his feet. Mitch doesn’t try to stop him.

Something sparks inside of Connor though; Mitch can see his spine poke out as he stops to overlook his options. Connor knows the deal. He’s been there, done that; had to say goodbye to his protege and know their worlds can’t meet halfway.

Nothing vocal comes out. Connor keeps his head on straight and knocks his forehead against Freddie’s like he normally does after a win on home ice. Freddie does a slow blink in response, then settles on leaning into the affection with a tiny, almost disputable purr.

 

The new season comes full of surprises and new players. It’s good to see everyone again but difficult to explain how it feels to see Freddie operating on ice when he laces his skates up for the first time since April.

Freddie doesn’t bat an eyelash when Mitch zooms past him, only using a war cry as greetings. It’s so ordinary in stature that it’s as if no time has passed. Mitch can slot himself back into the line-up without the monkey hanging off his back and focus on playing. Conversation will come later.

The locker room opens itself up to a handful of new players: one of them being Patrick Marleau. They call him ironman, ironic, seeing as how they’ve got an actual iron man just a few feet away. No one takes a dig at the cyborg namesake to keep Freddie comfortable and somehow, they come out alright.

It takes a minute or two sitting with Freddie to fully comprehend the changes. Freddie looks him over once, pats down Mitch’s side and declares, “you’ve gotten bigger.” It’s the spark that sets off a long spindle of words as Freddie claws into Mitch’s offseason schedule and begs for the little details.

They get a reasonable period of time to catch up and the trainers recognize that it’s the happiest Freddie’s been since his activation period and let him wander more so than usual. The rest of the roster creates a little semi-circle for Freddie to play in, dabbling in traditions and pictures of family members he’s never seen before.

Then, there’s Connor Brown. He certainly takes pride in his work and is already working toward securing a place on the team and dragging them kicking and screaming into the playoffs. In a way, he’s a Hyman with a coat of fresh paint. Mitch does love him though, that’s for sure. Freddie loves him even more and that’s a lot less obvious. Had Mitch not been so "attuned" to Freddie’s moods he might’ve missed it but there’s no misreading how Freddie lingers around Connor and leans in close when they talk, using his own internet-searched techniques.

He doesn’t know if Freddie understands the implications of what he’s doing but it reminds him of how Freddie tried snagging him. It’s kinda cute. Connor definitely reciprocates, knowingly or not, which coincides with spurring Freddie on. The goalie inches his way into Connor’s life during practice, getting more physical every time the puck is shot his way. Better yet, because management is so concerned with keeping Mitch out of the picture they completely miss Connor’s little intrusion, giving the two more time to cement their bond.

Mitch never portrayed himself as the lovable wingman character but he decides Connor is going to be his little pet project for the time being, just on a whim. He, personally, couldn’t fall for an android or cyborg or whatever Freddie was but if Connor could, then he was going to support it wholeheartedly. Connor is perfect for Freddie in every way, even down to his fascination with goalie models and his experience handling them in the past.

The one thing he has to go off on is the visceral reactions so, his first course of action is pegging down Freddie. The android is only activated and permitted to be talked to inside “office hours” as they call it, which extends from anything to a game or practice or simple meet-up with the executives. If half the time wasn’t occupied with meaningless updates and tech babble he might’ve got a minute in with Freddie early but sadly, it takes until they’ve lost to Detroit--on home ice no less--for him to slide on down to Freddie’s stall for some sleepover-like chat.

“Sooo,” he stretches out his o’s obnoxiously, “Brownie: what’cha thinking?” Everyone around them has their batteries drained, giving them alone time. Even despite Mitch trying to lower his voice to a mutter, he knows if the team's really listening in they could catch some of what he’s saying, which isn’t very reassuring. Privacy is apparently a luxury now.

“Pardon me?” Freddie says like the gentleman he is.

Mitch leers at him, proceeds to scooch a pinch closer and get close enough to say without fear of judgement, “I know you like Connor.”

Freddie’s face doesn’t blank because he’s a robot, but he does back up to give himself more personal space. It’s like seeing a turtle retreat into its shell. “I, yes, I like him. It’s as you said, a good friendship.”

“Not like-like,” Mitch teases him, “like as in _love_. You’re attracted to him.” He sees Freddie’s head crane up, giving him a perfect display of a sweaty Connor just about ready to take off into the shower.

“He’s nice,” Freddie settles on. “A good player, doesn’t shoot too hard. I like being his friend.”

“You should go and talk to him.” His voice is much too peppy, like a collection of pressurized gas forced into a cola can. He’s practically bursting at the seams.

“Now?”

Mitch eyes the alcove where the showers rest, steam wafting out. “Well, maybe not right now, but soon. I think he likes you too.”

Freddie straightens himself. “Likes as in love?”

“We’ll see, maybe."

“Okay.” Freddie’s voice doesn’t betray anything. If Mitch didn’t know any better he might dare to say he has weirded Freddie out. There’s hope though: he knows the gentle giant is smiling as he exits the room.

 

It’s sad to say that his reasoning going in boils down to him not being kinky enough to imagine having a romantic affair with a robot but believing Connor is. Damn him to hell, it _is_ actually reasonable because Connor appears on board with everything right from the word “go.” Connor never shut down when faced with a foreign threat: he pursues it head-on and that apparently includes the romantic endeavours of a certain android goalie staring after him every practice.

To classify it as true love still might be a bit of a stretch--Freddie has already misread him once--but Mitch is on the positive end of the spectrum. He isn’t pushing in doubt that didn’t need to be there. Instead, as the self-proclaimed chaperone, he’s stringing them along through the first affectionate conversations and chatting up Connor about the shenanigans on ice over some obscene form of carb load before their games.

“I mean, he’s a nice guy and all but I think starting a relationship is a bit of a stretch,” Connor stammers around a mouthful of noodles. Even though he’s putting forth an argument, he voice is wobbly.

“I’m not saying you have to go out there and do anything but don’t lead him on man,” Mitch shoots back.

Connor looks mortified at the idea. “I’m not leading him on, it’s just, where can we go? It’s destined to fail, right?”

“You tell me,” Mitch says in turn. In truth, his optimism doesn’t extend beyond a year or two where they will inevitably fail. It’s a grim reminder that, as they’re basking in the afterglow of practice, Freddie is locked into a supply closet, maybe still functioning as he waits out the time until he’s loaded onto the transport for the next game.

Connor doesn’t look hungry after that--he spends the remainder of the meal picking at severed noodles with his fork. It’s a downer on their party and Mitch fears he may have set them off course unintentionally.

The game is a different story. Connor marches in with his game-day suit looking like the proxy of some rich corporation. Something about his suit combination clicks with how the ginger hair offsets the Leafs’ navy blue and Mitch already feels the hotness of the camera lenses pinning him like a scope.

It takes five minutes, only five, for sparks to fly between Connor and Freddie, the latter of which is parked in the back and making snide faces at the attendants removing wiring from him. It’s such a break from normal that the rest of the team is left blinking owlishly as Connor kneels before their goalie with one of the man’s freakishly large skates in hand.

Freddie’s long since learned how to tie his own skates but sits still and lets Connor work, only reciprocating once his bottom gear is secured. No words are said. They separate once the skates are laced and the stalls are all occupied with red on their cheeks.

They set fire to their affection on the ice, somehow managing to be courteous and respectful of their audience through the timid touches they administer between practice shots during warmup. It’s like watching two exotic birds frolic around a courtyard; Mitch doesn’t even need to intervene. Everything from there on out is automatic from a course set since they were getting geared up. All he has to do is smile and wave as he flexes his legs over Auston’s droning commentary.

“What made you change your mind?” Mitch asks him after the light show quiets enough for them to hold a proper conversation.

“To be honest, Connor McDavid.” Mitch hikes his eyebrows up and Connor takes a minute to laugh before he continues, more sombre than before. “I saw Connor, the other Connor, grow up a husk. He stares ahead,” Connor mimics it with wide eyes, “just like this and does nothing. Nobody means anything, his whole life is hockey. And then I saw Freddie, with his tennis balls and water bottles and everything he hoards to be human and I realized that I was freaking out over nothing. He’s just as human as you or me.”

 _Just as human._ Mitch doesn’t answer. He can’t.

 

Connor stays plastered to Freddie’s side game after game, prompting some sketchy on-ice movements that cost them goals against. It takes a simple bodycheck of Connor in the defensive end of the ice for Freddie to uproot himself and return the favour, his hardened metal parts enough to cause lethal harm. Babs is on his tail the second it starts to get him out of the habit and Connor’s minutes are slashed, another safety precaution to keep the team together and Freddie from being booted.

Even the _referees_ can see Freddie’s eyes aren’t entirely on the puck and they miss things ten times more obvious than that. Mitch is concerned for both Freddie and Connor alike. It doesn’t look good on their resume and the announcers pick up on it easily. It’s a public relations nightmare for the team brand, although the reception is nothing but lively. _A goalie in love, how delightful!_

It doesn’t stop the waterfall of items thrown onto the ice, their owners ejected.

The crunch is on and Freddie looks ready to strangle Babs after the second straight game where he almost makes a bad play because he’s preoccupied with something much more important.

 

Mitch watches everything to give a second opinion on what’s too obvious and what stays within the boundaries of “friendly” to the outside world. He starts to feel that he’s being undermined. The two are growing out of needing a chaperone. It’s sweet. It’s also dangerous.

Freddie’s opens himself up, literally. Connor gets to tinker with things he has no business touching. Mitch would know, he walks in on them once or twice when they’re using the team’s bus loading as a guise to hide how Connor has Freddie’s elbow socket opened up. They even have the balls to do it on ice. Mitch recalls the one time Freddie stutters once on ice and the trainer doesn’t need to be called up because Connor flicks some switch with his nifty fingers and gets Freddie going, good as new.

It’s not Connor’s position to be Freddie’s gatekeeper. Freddie isn’t just a regular human with skin on the outside and a brain on the inside. Freddie’s a mobile central processing unit who can only take what he learns and grow stronger. If anyone is going to get hurt, It’s Connor.

 

Connor’s investment doesn’t wane, it grows. He goes all cross-eyed when he talks now. Normally, Mitch wouldn’t pay him time of day beyond civil locker room discussions (he has a limit on how many “cute” adjectives can be forced into a sentence) simply because Freddie is all Connor talks about on the ice. It makes sense--hypothetically--but the more Connor recedes into the background of the working machine the more Freddie becomes the mouthpiece character.

Mitch would never go ahead and say it out loud but he starts to believe romance isn’t the motivating factor for Freddie’s devotion. Even though the media’s run out of cruel questions to taunt him with, Freddie’s just as hungry for freedom as a caged wolf. It’s arguably worse than the previous season, especially when taking into account how he’s firsthand seen friends go onto greener pastures. Not even celebrating his artificial birthday has the same lustre to Freddie as whenever an outside element is brought into the locker room.

Naturally, Freddie is the one to bring up dating custom. He also asks Connor out on a date.

Mitch knows about Freddie’s dilemma, knows the android spends an obscene amount of time at practice staring out the wide front doors where the parking lot is in plain view. Someone of his make, worth millions, isn’t going to get outdoor privileges. That’s precisely the one thing that separates Freddie from them.

They’re a good chunk of the way through the season, still recovering from a brutal loss against Boston, and the tension interlocking Mitch’s joints can’t be overestimated. He needs something fluffy, something of substance to fatten up his increasingly dull social life. When Connor picks out an idea, he’s all ears.

“I think we should take him to see the lake,” Connor says. “The practice arena is right there. Why not?” His gear is strapped over his shoulder, swinging in a Leafs bag so big it practically dwarfs him. They were just about to take off for Chinese too, because Mitch isn’t stupid enough to test food poisoning again.

Mitch looks up from his duffle bag, where his gloves stand up of their own will. “Because there are security and cameras and shit--what’s wrong with you?”

Connor jabs a finger into his chest. “It was _your_ idea for me to do something with him in the first place, don’t pin it on me. C’mon, it’s not _that_ hard.”

“There are lesser security measures taken on guarding ancient jewelry, Connor.” He’s far too exasperated to argue but points a bony finger up at the rounded domes pinning their artificial lenses on them.

Connor follows but does not complete the thought. His mouth hardens into a grotesque shape.

“I’ll do it myself then.” Connor takes off with all the bolster of a plane leaving the runway. It’s no wonder that Mitch is drawn, his restraint snapping like worn fishing wire as he chases the redhead down. When he does match Connor, no words are swapped; as far as the latter is concerned, they’ve already shaken hands on it.

And Mitch will give Connor credit, it’s not too difficult. Just explaining what it is they’re doing to Freddie in the small, cramped space of his docking station is magical because of how what’s supposed to be a grown man’s face distorts into childish glee. Connor--for reasons Mitch refuses to pry about--knows the route to Freddie’s storage room to write a book about it and it gives some slack to the very short time limit they have.

It’s easier said than done though. It’s difficult enough to bring bags into the rink but a whole Freddie is a measurement that can’t compare. For one, he’s loud. Not in the traditional sense, it depends on the circumstances. If Freddie’s excited, which he inevitably is, his circuits whir and blast out hot air. He sounds like a ventilation machine and it takes some maneuvering to skirt him through the skinny hallways without an ambush waiting around the corner.

Security footage is a given, they can’t control that. Mitch pays off the guards on duty because they’re fans too and will bend the law just enough to get some signed sticky notes and desk portraits in return. Their last big obstacle is in the simple witness department but they play it by year. Mitch scouts and Connor leads and they use the back entrance as a shortcut when the zamboni has finally cleared.

Outside is white, really white. It forces them to squint as they lead Freddie through the gaping doorway. The goalie’s feet crunch their first snow and he’s gobsmacked. His forehead wrinkles are smoothed out, jaw slacked as his optics adjust. Connor looks ready to sprint out of his own skin with excitement just watching him.

Management is going to shave their faces right off. Mitch repeats it in his head like a mantra as they jump the fence and bolster themselves up the hill. It isn’t the pier but it’s close enough. Freddie’s got a gaping hole where his tight-lipped smile should be and he bogs Connor down with questions.

“I’ve tried to simulate this with videos but it’s not the same,” Freddie says. There’s a sad undertone that Mitch can’t overlook. It’s the prophetic telling of knowing Freddie’s finally free and will still walk back into his prison cell in thirty minutes with his head down with only memories to sustain himself with.

His mind is a beehive of terrible ideas swarming back and forth. He decides to give the other two space and clear a spot on a sullied park bench to plop down on. He needs an intervention to stop worrying himself sick with what will be. He better be named the best damned friend there ever was.

Two minutes in and Mitch can see, in his peripheral view, the two experimenting with a kiss. It takes mustering every link of control to not watch. Strangely enough, it’s not a thing he thought would tug at his restraint as much as it does but perhaps seeing something of a similar ilk to Freddie’s kiss on him was like the concluding sentence of a paragraph. It wasn’t him but someone else that was better-fitted for Freddie’s smoothed edges.

The three are chained down in the snow globe, the gilded cage built from exhaust pipes and metal building structure. Flurries are freckled around them, pushed by the wind as it slaps their faces. Logically, it’s cold. Mitch is worn thin after a practice that asked a lot of him and the best remedy would be some intimate time to himself and his bedroom sheets. Literally, he’s pretty damn happy.

They can’t take Freddie down to the water for obvious reasons but they get to enjoy the other spectacles of the city from their little perch. Over time, Freddie relaxes enough to stop jerking his body at the siren of a car horn and truly appreciate the colours blaring out from drain covers and seedy singles bars. Connor’s got one hand in Freddie’s, the bigger hands masking his entirely.

They have to go in eventually. Freddie negotiates one more minute, then two, but it gets to a point where he is shut down not of Mitch or Connor’s intervention but his own self-awareness. It also might help that if Connor’s complexion got any redder he’d bloom into a tomato. Freddie holds both of their hands and squeezes as hard as he can as he’s led like a horse with a halter on the way back to the sheltered exit.

When they do get inside there’s a mad scramble of feet. Squadrons of people are flocking like birds flying south for winter. All of the processes are culled the second Freddie’s back. They’re the fucking show stoppers.

It’s the worst possible scenario but even with the commotion exploding Freddie still has the protective instinct left to shield Connor with his body. It’d be kind of sweet if they weren’t being carted off to the barracks, left to listen to a wailing Freddie fight off fight equipment managers as Connor is shucked out from under his arms and he’s pressed down by five people at one.

Mitch hears but doesn’t see the dull thud. It’s terrible yes, but he hopes it’s them knocking Freddie out and not vice versa.

 

“I thought we told you not to get involved Connor!” Dubas shouts. “Do you realize how hard the insurance companies would be covering our asses if they knew we had such valuable property outside?”

“He’s got feelings too you know,” Connor said. His voice is degrading into a pout. If Lamoriello wasn’t out of town with Dubas acting as a proxy, Connor wouldn’t dare say anything. Mitch chooses not to intervene, gripping the chair handle for dear life.

“I don’t care what he feels, he’s property of our team and I don’t know what the hell you were thinking with this stunt of yours.” Dubas’ face is fired up. His dimples pop because of how active his mouth is running. Mitch feels sick with the idea of their potential new general manager being so furious with him.

“But--”

Dubas puffs out a long stretch of air. “I want you to go out there,” his arm flies out in the direction of the exit, “and not show your face until Babs decides what to do with you two. This is the third time we’ve had to go over this and I don’t know what else we can do to get the message across.”

“We’re sorry,” Mitch intervenes. For once, he tries to be selfish, to help determine that he won’t be sent down, or worse, up on the trade market. “It was a terrible decision and we came back as soon as we could.”

“Well,” Dubas fixes his glasses, “the only thing I can say is: you’re lucky no one got hurt.”

 

Someone does get hurt. Freddie, to some degree, yes but mainly Connor. Mitch can’t be punished that bad because they’re up against Pittsburgh and need the offensive depth. Connor, on the other hand, is replaced with a call-up and goes unnoticed from the play. Because of his temper tantrum, Freddie is out too, meaning Sparks gets a scoop of valuable playing time to work with.

It’s a loss and a sour one at that. Murray is of the same breed of hyper-constructed goalies and he bends like an accordion. The bench has a much tighter leash on him too; none of the players say a single word the entire game to him and only bump their helmets against his cage as thanks. It’s another sick example of the change in the modern-era--one that drove out the Penguins former Marc-Andre Fleury in what was quite possibly the biggest stab in the back management could make.

Freddie doesn’t return for three days. Reprogramming, they say. When they’re done with him there won’t be anything left to tinker his progress. Connor won’t exist in him, at least not the same way. Mitch does a quick Google search and exits out of the tab before he gets into the schematics. Ignorance is bliss.

Those last seconds haunt him. He can’t sleep. Everything about Freddie screaming out for his friends to come back for him as he’s dragged into a dark hallway, plugged into the equivalent of an electric chair, and short-circuited until he blows a fuse and his world is ripped out from underneath his feet makes Mitch wake up in a cold sweat for three nights in a row.

 

Mitch is the last one to see the changes, par for Connor. They’re testing Freddie out at practice beside Sparks days later and already, he's moving like a completely different person. The distractions blur away and Freddie’s now a performer at centre stage. He goes into the butterfly position with ease and leaves the trainers near-applauding.

He also doesn’t spare a single handwave in Mitch’s direction. Mitch just has to suck it up and heft his equipment out; to do anything else would just be cruel.

 

Connor isn’t won over with the new Freddie. His name’s on the chopping block and he still manages to get fired up enough about the drama. He makes enough points to publish a full academic paper on the topic just by talking alone. And _Mitch_ is supposed to be the energetic one.

Mitch gets worked into a trap: Connor buys him a double-double and takes it to his house the night Mitch complains about being too distracted to get jersey signing done. He’s grateful for the well-blended roast that his coffee machine can’t reproduce but not at all happy to have a moping Connor taking up his living room couch.

“How could they go in there and reuptake a being with conscious thought and emotion and--” Connor’s hands are wringing, shoulders popped out in two different directions.

“It was a risk to even have that in the first place,” Mitch pleads. He’s winded and just wants to land face-flat in his memory foam mattress. His nostrils have nothing but the smell of permanent marker inhabiting them.

Connor’s nostrils flare. “I don’t care what they say. They wouldn’t have let him feel if they thought it could be harmful.” His thrashing sends a few markers rolling around.

“Babs says--” Mitch starts up and Connor is in his face.

“I don’t care what Babs says!”

“--it’s a protective instinct. You’re just another net to protect for him.” Connor isn’t paying attention; Mitch grabs both of his hands in a single lunge. “Connor. If they could stop it, wouldn’t they have by now?” For a second, his words meet a mirror coat and bounce off into the distance. The denial is set so deep into Connor’s pores that even the truth can’t cleanse them.

But then they reach a tipping point and the combination of being held with the realization things have changed hit Conor so hard it gives him visible whiplash. Some of the fight--not all of it--drains.

Wordlessly, Connor parks himself beside Mitch. The instinctual need to comfort and hold washes over Mitch in ginormous tsunami waves and he bares himself naked for Connor to hide in. Mitch doesn’t even care that his _Friends_ hoodie is now clad with snot and tears. He deserves it.

“You never should’ve told me to go after him,” Connor says and it confirms Mitch’s suspicions. It wasn’t a one-time thing or Connor would’ve moved on. Something else was rotting underneath for quite some time. He can't accuse Connor of secret rendezvous without being mean. He's made his bed and has to lie in it.

“I know,” he soothes, “I know.”

 

New Freddie is everyone one would expect from the word android goalie. He’s unfeeling and totally competent at net, not sparing a minute to get involved with team affairs. Everyone knows something is up but no one has the guts to bring it up yet. They all accept their once aloof yet modest ginger goalie is now as cold as the plastic that encases him.

(Mitch sees him emptying his hoard of belongings into the communal trash bin. “They don’t mean anything,” Freddie says when he’s questioned. It stings.)

That is to say, Freddie is meaner but not stupid. They did some kind of reset but it didn’t wipe out facts or personal knowledge. He’s still able to recognize teammates birthdays. He’s also still lingering around the corner, stalking down Connor time and time again just to rub shoulders. It’s not the typical courtship they once had. It’s rough. Freddie’s moving like a car on cruise control, following orders without emotional intent.

Mitch stops asking questions. He’s out of carrots. He’s out of sticks. He orients himself toward his hockey and lets management speak on behalf of Freddie. They’ve made it clear they’re the only ones suitable to be handling him in the first place, so they can walk into media scrums and explain why Freddie is so horrible at handling interviews now.

There’s supposed to be a miasma between him and Freddie to keep him out of trouble. It’s difficult to uphold with there being a close regiment expected of players on a professional league team.

Sooner or later (the first game of the new year) they win. That’s the first big hurdle.

“You should hug me,” Freddie says through his mask post-game. The bars make him sound like he’s talking through cotton balls.

Mitch had tried skating away after the helmet bump. Apparently, it didn’t do much to help Freddie settle down.

“Why? We’re not friends.”

“Because you always hug me. You should do it,” he says. He closes in on Mitch, squashing him up against the bench. Mitch tries to hold his ground but it’s damn near difficult on skates.

“I think we’re fine. I mean, you don’t even know why you want me to do it.”

Freddie’s expression darkens. “I don’t need to know why, I just need you to do it.”

Mitch gives in. He throws his arms up around Freddie’s broad shoulders and tugs him in close. It's everything a hug shouldn’t be. Emotionless. Stiff. Cold. Mitch is only able to get back his personal space after Freddie’s departed to the recharge station. There’s not even a good-bye to ease the separation.

 

Whatever’s come over Connor is serious, serious enough to defy the odds and put him in the scope of danger. Mitch isn’t going to play bystander, it’s something he has to stop. Connor’s got a self-destructive streak he needs to harness control over before he loses his friend to the sharks.

Practice is in five minutes but he’s sprinting on skate guards toward the little alcove breaking off from the locker room where the two are situated, so close it’s difficult to distinguish where Freddie begins and Connor ends.

“What the fuck,” Mitch says to get their attention. “Did you not listen to anything Dubas said?”

Connor looks over at him and he’s not furious, much of the opposite. “Mitch.” He splits into a near-foul grin. “We were just talking about you. Freddie’s back.” His hand twists the shirt covering Freddie’s chest until his knuckles turn white. Freddie doesn’t budge.

“I don’t give a damn if he’s back, whatever that means!” Mitch is whisper-shouting, wary of the time they have left before someone comes looking. Connor can’t afford to be scratched again. “You need to get out, now.”

“Mitch.” This time it’s Freddie talking. “Calm down.”

“No! Freddie, you know better. Do you want to be powered down? You know Dubas won’t allow this, not now, not ever.” Freddie releases Connor, just enough for Mitch to register the hurt transitioning to anger on his face.

“Mitch,” Connor says. An air of hurt is fogging up his eyes.

“No,” Freddie stops him, clamping his right hand down on Connor’s shoulder. The mechanics in the arm sputter at the aggressive hit. “Connor, leave. Mitch is right.”

“But--”

“Connor.” To make his point known, Freddie winds himself around and pushes Connor, using the rest of his body to eat up any personal space inside the contained perimeter so that the only way to move is out.

Connor’s clearly appalled but follows through with the order, shouldering his way by Mitch to get his gloves and hit the ice. Freddie is still. He’s looking at Mitch not as a friend but as a piece of prey to toy with. It’s frankly disturbing coming from someone who’s normally mild-tempered except when goals are let in.

“Are you okay, Freddie?” Mitch asks. He doesn’t try to inch his way up closer for the sake of keeping a few feet of distance should Freddie bolt. He’ll admit it: he doesn’t know what resets do to a goalie and frankly, neither does Connor because something is _clearly_ wrong with Freddie.

“I’m fine.”

Mitch tilts his head. “You look a bit winded, are you sure?”

“I said I’m fine.” Only Freddie’s mouth is making real movements, otherwise, he’s as still as a statue. “I was just spending time with Connor. I was telling him that he couldn’t trust Dubas. Neither should you.”

Mitch’s got a cork in his mouth. It’s like being on trial, scrambling to build a case just as the door to the rink slams open.

He knows there’s hell to be paid if he’s caught fraternizing with Freddie again and speed-walks to grab his water bottle and abandon the goalie to his post. The echoes of _don’t trust him, don’t trust anyone_ follow him to centre ice.

 

It’s not the last incident of its kind. New Freddie’s a damper on all parties. It’s a Connor McDavid type of relapse that’s made worse by everyone expecting he’ll be better. By now, a mob of people are beginning to come to terms with the fact they’ve lost their sentient being to the demands of a few higher-ups. On one hand, it quells the trepidation and fear. No longer is the franchise keeping a perfectly sentient being in a rink that’s less than half the size of a football field. On the other, he’s now about as entertaining as watching paint dry.

People don’t stop adoring Freddie just like how they don’t turn their backs their computer once it updates and becomes horribly non-user-friendly. It’s a drawn-out process as Freddie goes from holding empty cups of coffee in front of the cameras to look cool to staying bent over in place, ready to be uplinked to the system and played out for the joy of the people in the stands.

Mitch still has a big hole in his heart. Freddie keeps picking at it, intentionally or not.

“Connor, we should go out for another date. Just you and me,” Freddie says, directly in front of Mitch. Whether he's doing it to brag in front of him or not, the blow smacks Mitch across the face all the same.

Connor smiles. “Maybe later Freddie.”

“You said one day we might go down to the pier. I want to see the pier, just you and me.”

“Sure, Freddie.”

“You don’t want to?” Freddie’s neck seizes up, the memory chip on the back blinking at twice the speed it normally does. “I thought you loved me.”

“I love you,” Connor rushes. “But love doesn’t always work that way.” The words blur into each other like paintbrush strokes on a canvas.

“Then we’ll go on that date. You and me.” The word _love_ flies over his head. He’s not even trying to understand what it is anymore. Connor’s not trying to explain it. How do you explain love to someone that can’t feel it?

“Fine, Freddie.” Freddie pulls Connor in close and keeps him there.

Freddie ends up pressing in so tightly that Connor squeaks out a “let me go” after only ten seconds of being enveloped. The pause when it first rings out, like Freddie’s contemplating just how much damage he can do with his weight alone, makes the worry in all of them explode.

 

Connor’s staring at his hands when he walks into the locker room for second period intermission. He’s looked antsy all day but it’s seeping into his plays now too, leading him to be benched. Mitch _could_ overlook it and get some me time in his own stall to recuperate but he’s nothing if not a good friend, so he takes Leivo’s empty seat and tucks his knees in so that his skates don’t hit any of the attendants.

“You okay?” he asks, nudging Connor’s water closer. Connor curls into himself in response.

“No,” he answers. He sounds like a piece of roadkill, all bloody and beaten one too many times. Connor keeps flexing his biceps, watching how the joints in his fingers clench and unclench over and over again.

Without looking, he knows Freddie’s got something to do with it. No marks are evident on Connor, that much is assured. No scrapes, no bruises, and no imprints. Even a handprint would be enough to build a case with but Connor’s skin tells no story. Clench. Unclench.

Freddie’s getting his temperature taken not ten feet down. He doesn’t look at Connor anymore, focusing his pinprick pupils downwind where the fans are chanting. When the noise climbs to a crescendo his pupils dilate and consume the blur of colours around him.

Connor peeps beside him, “you were right. Something is wrong with him.”

“What happened?”

“I was filming something for a stupid promotional video in the basement. They hadn’t transported Freddie out yet so I paid him a visit. When I got in the room,” Connor stops as an attendant walks by, “he was still online and he gave me this look. I walked closer, just to make small talk. And he lunged for me.”

Mitch tries not to let the way Connor lurches get to him. “Did he hurt you?”

“No, he just grabbed both my arms.” Connor acts it out on Mitch, spinning him around and taking Mitch by the biceps. “And he asked why. Why do I care about you, all yelling and shit. I said he loved me and he wasn’t sure. He asked how he’s supposed to measure love. What it feels like. I thought he was playing with me because he knows,” he laughs humorlessly, “but he just stared through me.”

“I think it was the reset, Connor.”

“But he knows!” Connor near-wails. “He knows and I tell him all about what we did together and he remembers.” He’s sweating like a sinner in church. Mitch has a feeling that even if he could mince his words to be nice, the effect would be the same.

“The thing is,” Mitch swallows to get the hot rock blocking his throat clear, “he probably realizes the reset tinkered with something. He’s pretending to remember so that you don’t feel bad.”

Connor stops himself. “You’re wrong.”

“Connor--”

“You’re wrong, because _I know_ he has those memories. I was there when we rebooted him.” Connor’s mouth tries to clamp shut but it’s like a revolving door at this point. Word vomit piles out in front of them. “He’s got a whole wetware brain with little components you can tamper. He made sure a piece of himself would always be mobile. I carried it.”

“Without telling me?” Mitch feels scandalized. Someone’s got and tossed a bucket full of holy water on him and baked his skin a nice pink colour.

“Mitch,” Connor levels, “there’s _so_ much you don’t know. I’ve been with McDavid. I’ve seen him inside and out. I know what I can do and they’re just an oversized computer if you know where to look.”

Mitch loses control of his facial muscles: he’s simply reacting. Shock is firing through his nerves at every new piece of information.

“It was the first thing I did when we got a minute alone. I saw him boot on and,” Connor says, holding Mitch’s face in one hand, “he did this. He smiled, like he always did. But it wasn’t the same. I knew it was a memory access. You can’t _fake_ that.”

“Connor.” Mitch can’t make words.

It’s not sadness, it’s shame that’s still wet on Connor’s confession. It’s knowing he did something so foolish and expected a different outcome that keeps his head down. It’s also a secret both of them will have to take to the grave. Another problem for Mitch to solve, if his life wasn’t hectic enough.

 

It’s not as simple as trying to break free of that mould. Freddie doesn’t manage any emotional capacity but he still daisy-chains himself behind Connor.

“I know you’re ignoring me,” he says into the back of Connor’s neck. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Connor replies, stale. It’s cement-cold.

Freddie tucks his head in but it has no meaning. He does it because he feels compelled to, just like how he hugs Mitch because he has to. He’s a puppet controlled by the ghost that once embodied him.

Deep inside the shell of a man is a ticking time bomb. Mitch knows it. Connor knows it. Lou and Dubas know it. It’s just a matter of when it goes off.

 

It’s the second Saturday of March. Saturday night hockey: the fans are going ballistic. They scrape by and win. Hyms nets one. Auston nets two. Hainsey gets the empty net goal when the other team nearly ties it three to three with two minutes left in the period. They win.

Freddie’s plants a kiss on Connor’s lips.

In front of the cameras, at the end of the game, he flips his mask and waits for Connor to get in close enough range to lunge and doesn’t take no for an answer. There’s an loud chant coming from the crowd, trying to egg him on or punish his choice of actions via protest. Whether it’s a stupid media stunt or not, it puts them all in danger and the ice quakes as players look over their shoulders, up at the boxes where the older men perch.

Mitch couldn’t be more pissed.

But it’s not about him: Connor is the one being escorted off the ice with Freddie in tow. Connor’s the one being held like a criminal. It’s reasonable for the technicians to think he’s responsible for Freddie’s faulty programming when he’s been the culprit too many times to count. To a degree, that’s true but Connor’s been making an effort to stay away and even a bat could see it. From Mitch’s perspective, it doesn’t make any sense.

The celebrations are put on pause as the players are led off the ice. With a single destination in mind, Mitch storms the locker room after pushing off his skates and tramples over multiple cameramen as he makes a beeline for the General Manager’s office where Lou awaits. There’s a trail of ice shavings leading him down the winding halls like something out of Hansel and Gretel.

He’s not ready to open the door barricading the yelling from himself. It’s like chasing a puck into a corner: he knows he’s going to get hurt.

He filters air through his mouth, orients himself. Then, he cranks the jerky door open just enough to slip through.

Connor’s got his back plastered against the wall. He looks shell-shocked, staring down a bloody Freddie. Lamoriello’s body is crumpled like a sheet of thin paper on the carpeted floor. There’s no stench of death stinking up the place but there’s a sour taste on Mitch’s tongue anyway. For the first few seconds, the whole lot of them stand in one spot, not daring to do so much as blink lest they bring down the wrath of someone else. During the stretch, Mitch can see Lamoriello’s back stutter and lets himself exhale.

It doesn’t, however, remedy the fact that Frederik is brandishing a bloodied pair of scissors. Connor’s still looking on with horror, situated behind the desk as his only means of cover. Mitch, being likely the only sane party in the room, pushes himself to take the extra step forward and enter Freddie’s proximity.

“Freddie, please put the scissors down,” he says. Both his hands are up like he’s approaching a rabid bear and in a way, he is. Freddie’s neck is bunched up and his nose is much of the same. The hostility so blatantly displayed has Mitch tottering on the edge.

It was too difficult to keep walking so close, so Mitch stopped about five feet away. “I have no idea why you’ve--why Lou is on the ground but you need to talk to me.”

“He wants me deactivated,” Freddie says. “He wants Connor,” his hand sliced through the air, throwing invisible darts in the man’s direction, “gone. I won’t allow it.”

Connor’s striking out on a whole vocabulary of whimpers. His whole face is flushed a pink so deep in contrast it's probably dangerous.

“I know, hey, Freddie, I know. He’s an ass but that doesn’t mean you go and kill him.”

Freddie looks up, for once his face a raw simulation of emotion. “You said that when you love someone you’d do anything for them, to protect them. I tried to play the part but I can’t. This is the only way. He deserves it.”

“Yes,” Mitch bites his tongue, “but that doesn’t mean killing him.” The repetition falls deaf on his own ears. Freddie looks scandalized by Mitch’s choice of allegiance (if you could even call it that) and rears up enough for his head to almost touch the ceiling panels.

“You’re not happy for me?” His voice has a slur racing through it: thinking of one thing and saying another.

Mitch shakes his head vehemently. “I’m so happy for both you and Connor.” At the mention of his name, Connor snaps back into focus. “This though? This ensures you won’t get to be together anymore. The cops are going to come and it’s going to be some big thing…” Mitch’s hands fly up to tug at the strands of brown hair.

Freddie eyes the scissors in his hands, jagged ones meant to cut heavy paper. Mitch briefly wonders how hard he’d had to press in and scrape to do the damage inflicted on Lamoriello. He terminates the thought before he goes woozy from pain.

Connor takes the opportunity to turn over and make some distance crawling on his knees. There’s still a perpetually large, intimidating goalie separating him from the divide of the room on the other side but that doesn’t stop him. Mitch keeps him in his peripheral vision, mustering up the courage to try easing the scissors down with a surrender of his hands.

“I don’t want you to get hurt Freddie, so please,” he cries, “just put the scissors down.”

“But you’re on _their_ side.” Freddie places the words down gently, although his expression is fiery with the heat he’s packing underneath.

“I’m on your side,” Mitch objects. “I was your first friend, remember?”

Freddie advances on him, at the same time stopping Connor in his tracks. Mitch, initially overwhelmed, takes a series of steps back until he’s flat against the wall and Freddie got both arms boxing him in like two crane’s wings, sweeping out in every direction.

“Freddie,” Mitch mewls. His bangs are layering his face so that he can’t see things properly but it’s as though the room has been turned on an axis. Everything above them, from the rafters to the vents, are diagonally placed. The only _right_ thing is Freddie, and he’s currently brandishing scissors in a hand lingering dangerously close to Mitch’s ear.

Freddie leans in. “I know what you’re trying to do, I’m not stupid. You’re going to get us shut off and save him, aren’t you?”

Mitch gulps. He doesn’t have the ability to deny him this time.

There’s a white hot pain in his arm the next second, which transfers over to his leg until it satisfyingly cracks. Connor screams. Mitch is only focusing on sucking down oxygen as his vision doubles over, showing two heads of ginger both as menacing as their mirror copy. His eyes don’t stray, he’s scared to let them. All he can say for certain is something’s happening to his legs and he’s too out of it to remember if he’d even screamed.

From the side of his vision, he can see something fizzing like a sparkler. It shorts out everything in his vision until the morphine-like additive coursing through him _pops_. Everything hails on him then--his nerves reconnect and cry out for help. Then, he knows he’s screaming. He can hear his voice yell back at him.

There’s another head of ginger stumbling up but the second it’s in the frame, Freddie backs down. For one second, one terrible second, Mitch can see Connor’s mouth move and the implied words are all just as demeaning as a slap to the face. Connor’s stronger than Mitch physically, but not by much. Freddie would snap him like a twig.

It remains a very likely possibility, even when Freddie’s only got eyes for his supposed lover. Mitch quakes. The tremble works its way to his toes where the blood flow staggers. Connor’s blurring out into white noise and all Mitch’s eyes can track is the colour orange. He sees it blob to the right, a peachy tone wrapping around the redder circle.

He’s ebbing out and it’s harder to recognize who’s who. Something’s piercing through his ear like a dirty needle; no matter how he turns it sets in his lobe and bites in. Even as he squirms, he’s working to figure out if its something physical or just the vibration of Connor screaming as he’s carried off.

Where he’s set, he’s facing Lamoriello’s mangled body. The other man’s chest still pulls as he breathes but it’s getting harder to track those movements fluidly. A cranberry cocktail of blood oozes out, bubbles frothing on top. If he had the energy, Mitch might’ve inched over to check his pulse. There’s no time though, his eyelids are pulling shut.

Not even the existential crisis of knowing Freddie’s walking out, dodging sensors and tricking those unable to recognize his animatronic motions keep him conscious. Knowing if Freddie really wanted, he could jump in a vehicle and go somewhere remote without resistance is the last thing Mitch's mind can process.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me @cursivecherrypicking on tumblr! i have fixed the ask box problem that was stopping anons from talking to me. all you need to do is click the envelope and you can chat with me anonymously (or not). cheers!


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